


With Sentiment Enough

by Elenscaie (EroticAsphyxia)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne-centric, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jason Todd is Red Hood, POV Damian Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EroticAsphyxia/pseuds/Elenscaie
Summary: Whatever lies past those masks, he knows, is not for him to unearth. To catch glimpse beyond the black is not what he is meant for. Not due to an inability of achieving such, because there exists no act, no deception, no pretense he is incapable of uprooting the truth of eventually.He is perfectly capable. He absolutely can. He just won't.He shouldn't.
Relationships: Damian Wayne and Jason Todd
Comments: 4
Kudos: 120





	With Sentiment Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ellegrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellegrine/gifts).



> Originally written [here](https://elenscaie.tumblr.com/post/190621131146/vignette-damian-wayne-jason-todd-i-blame). I expanded on it a bit, and that's more satisfaction for me and—hopefully—just plain satisfactory for whoever clicks on it in the first place.

Damian sits back straight and tall—as tall as any ten-year-old boy can be without the advent of a growth spurt—regal against the ebony wood, head held high, frown pulling at his features the most miniscule bit. His teeth aren’t gritted, not yet, but with how Todd is going, he’s well on his way towards such.

“I can’t fathom why Father would even abide by this for one minute; you’ve clearly never done this to another, and I don’t want to know how you managed this for yourself.”

A hard-sharp bark of laughter is his only response. Tiny pinpricks of pain lace up his scalp and scrape a hiss out of him when the comb turns, twists, trapping him in _the_ most childish tug-of-war when he snaps his neck forward to set his skull straight.

“You think this is bad? Try being born and bred in the Narrows, brat—you’d be lucky to get a damn fingerbone to use for your hair.”

The comment settles sharply between Damian’s ribs; he curses himself for the flippancy and the flagrant ignorance and for whatever remaining faults he can find in the words he just uttered. It gets him to shift and swivel in his seat—plush velvet black—eyes cut to slits, lips set in a stern line. On most children, it would have all the effect of a boy playing at being a man.

Damian isn’t a boy, however. He was born and bred, too, in the heart of shadows and subterfuge and swords and secrecy. Cradled in the blue-black night all the better to shield himself from the dominion of death if and when he strayed from the rules. Brought up to keep his hackles hitched and suspicions sharp at words so sweetly spoken they might harbor poisonous barbs at their centers.

Damian al Ghul understood all too well the potency of lies and personas, power plays and personal agendas and playing at defeat when, in truth, your enemy would find themselves struggling beneath the weight of your victories just as their guard slackened the slightest bit.

Damian Wayne understands all that and more. For all that he has been pared down to something possessing less lethality and more mercy, he is no tamer for it, his nature blunted barely.

So when the words tumble like little drifts of ash from Todd’s lips, Damian switches around in his seat and says, confidence absolute, expression flinty, tone brooking no argument: “The Narrows amount to nothing but your past. You’ll not shame what it means to be a Wayne by speaking as if you’re still in that festering cesspool.” A delicate sniff of displeasure. ”I daresay even Grayson would be embarrassed on your behalf if he caught you speaking thusly.”

Each word falls on an even breath, cool-calculated and sure-sharp, mildly derisive in the way Damian has always been in the face of something that is either ridiculous or (oftentimes) obvious to him but to no one else.

In this place, surrounded by all those who deign to call themselves kin to Damian, he's discovered how both the ridiculous and the obvious mesh together almost all the time. Were he so inclined, he would've said it were amusing, if not for how infuriating it inevitably turns out to be.

His declaration nearly distracts him from the tension-bands riding rigid at his spine and shoulders. Just nearly. He isn’t soft, he isn’t _going soft_ , he merely speaks the truth.

The truth itself being rarely pure and never simple.

_But_ , Damian admits, _sometimes there are exceptions._

Exceptions he will _not_ be expanding upon. He can’t afford to. His fellow ~~brothers~~ vigilantes are perfectly capable of cultivating the masks they wear, whether it be to pander to the public's consumption or in regard to matters privy to ~~family~~ those of their affiliation or for nobody’s business save their very own.

Whatever lies past those masks, he knows, is not for him to unearth. To catch glimpse beyond the black is not what he is meant for. Not due to an inability of achieving such, because there exists no act, no deception, no pretense he is incapable of uprooting the truth of eventually.

He is perfectly capable. He absolutely can. He just won't.

_He shouldn't_.

Aside from that, none of them are weak. They possess steel and iron ~~and even adamantine~~ in their eyes, in their every move, whether those moves be carried out on crime-ridden streets or in the safety of Wayne Manor.

Words so carelessly spoken will scarcely leave a mark, much less the bruise Damian nearly flagellated himself oh-so-very neatly over.

Bottom line? Damian has little reason to be soft. This was just a fluke. Nothing more.

Streaming through air, weaving itself within the wavering hair-thin tension balancing Damian’s shoulders on a knifepoint edge, Todd’s voice falls through a chain of notes betraying cool amusement hidden not at all. “So what you’re getting at is that we’re both the superior model. Thanks, brat, figured you were about to go declare Golden Boy our supreme leader.” Fingers felt as sculpted thin and smattered with calluses wind down through his thick mop of night-sky curls, and Damian finds himself ill at ease with the notion of leaning into the touch. They ruffle and muss and run utterly roughshod, for all the damage done. His curls are already a minefield of filth and muck.

“Nice to know you’re on my side. I don't think Dickiebird needs any more sycophants singing his _many_ praises, don't you agree?”

That gets him to huff; he abstains from a massive eyeroll and snaps out impatiently, “Some of us must have enough sense to recognize when Grayson errs.” Laying flat one palm upon his cotton-clad thigh, the fabric so luxurious it may well be silk, he tugs on the hand gripping the comb and instructs, “You’ve picked out a majority of the leaves, and most of the dirt I washed out already. Just have some sense _yourself_ , Todd, and go _slow_.”

Calm smooths over him. It settles like the lines of relief easing out from his scalp as the comb gentles through his curls and the rustle and crackle of leaves displaced and disturbed fills the room.

“You know, I never would have figured you for ticklish. So, superior model mutuality or not, you can bet the next time we go up against Ivy, I’m bringing my phone.” The chuckle that paints the air is absolutely brimful with teasing mockery. “Or maybe I'll just nick one of B’s Batcams.”

“For the final time, the vine’s flowers were simply sharp, hence how fiercely I was fighting them off—to break free before they did too much damage. No Robin would sully himself by being _ticklish_.” Exasperation sets him to folding his arms across his chest and upturning his face to cut down the entirely inappropriate laughter, restrained wrath gleaming off the flats of his eyes. “I won’t humor any more of your misconceptions, petty as they always prove to be.”

That merely earns him another bout of ruffling and mussing, and loathe as he is to admit it, only to himself if to no one else, the calluses so characteristic of Todd’s hands tune his tension out, render his shoulders softened, his spine slithering in a relaxed curve. The familiarity grounds him to the present and to this moment in time in particular.

His eyes slide shut as Todd’s voice, dry and fond, floats back into being.

“Yeah, brat, whatever keeps your prim primadonna head in check. Just don’t let me catch you complaining about how I didn’t give you a heads up.”

An answering smirk just shy of a challenge, fangs sheathed but for the barest glimmer of brilliant white. “You wouldn’t come close to victory, Todd. I never lose.”


End file.
